Bored
by Cathrine-McCord
Summary: As I finally step through the ajar door I find him rolled up on the stone floor shaking, his cloth and hair a mess. Sherlock/John


Got the idea from this marvelous picture .com/gallery/#/d3i0pw1

Charackters are not mine.

Enjoy :)

**_Bored_**

"I'm home!"

I call out louder then necessary.

I grew the habit while living here, giving Sherlock time to snap out of what ever he is doing to adjust himself to my presence.

Though its going to be eleven Month tomorrow that we are now living together and though all our cases and hunts we went trough, I know that he still isn't all used to my existing around him.

Or at least that's the first thing coming to my mind being screamed at or insulted at many occasions.

Oh and of course, I'm trying to avoid occasional bullets and acids.

By now I know each and every part of the flat like myself, so I'm spotting the wet stinking mess on the floor while hanging up my jacket without looking.

"There is vomit on the floor ..."

I mumble to myself for a second.

"Why is there vomit on the floor, Sherlock?"

While already thinking about how to clean up that mess I look around for him.

There is no sign of my flatmate.

"Sherlock?"

And no answer.

And as so often this sickish feeling starts building up in my stomach again.

Knowing that its not coming from the pricing smell on the floor doesn't make it better.

"Sherlock, are you there?"

I looked trough nearly every room when I finally here a faint moan coming out of the bathroom.

Of course.

Of course he would go there if he is sick.

What part of me tried to avoid the bathroom so much?

What part made me knock instead of storming in?

"Sherlock? Can I come in?"

What part of me makes my voice sound so fucking small?

"John ..."

Its neither a question nor a invitation.

For me it sounds like a plea.

"Sherlock, I'm coming in ..."

As I finally step through the ajar door I find him rolled up on the stone floor shaking, his cloth and hair a mess.

Suppressing the urge to call out his name again I kneel down a bit placing a hand on his forehead.

He is burning up.

But I think maybe its just a virus.

Gosh I hope it's just a virus.

That's when I finally feel the cracking of the injection under my feet.

And my stomach twist.

"Oh boy ..."

I kick away as much splits as I can while kneeling down completely, my hand quickly sliding from his forehead to his neck.

His pulse is racing and my hands are soaking wet in an instance.

"J-John ..."

He barely whispers my name looking at me with half closed eyes.

I expect them to be blurry, far away, since I know very well which drugs he took.

But it's probably the clearest and most intense look I ever saw.

And the most desperate.

"...ohn … why-y ..."

His voice breaks while he faints and my inside twists jet another time.

I ignore the strong demand of my stomach to empty itself while doing my best to get him upstairs in my bed.

* * *

><p>It takes Sherlock about one and a half days to regain full consciousness again.<p>

He's been deeply asleep except for occasionally mumbling my name.

The floor beside my bed is plastered with empty IV bags and wet towels from my efforts to keep him hydrated and cool.

I only been away from his bedside to clean up the mess on the living room floor and to use the bathroom.

I couldn't even get myself to think about eating.

I couldn't get myself to think about anything but him.

Waking up he seems confused.

He clenches the blanket in his long pale fingers and sniffs around heavily, probably bewildered by the smell of my cushions, my smell.

It takes a while for him to notice me.

But when he does his eyes immediately look with mine.

"John … you are still-"

"You promised, Sherlock ..."

I cut him off.

"... you promised me ..."

Though I try I can't keep all of my disappointment and anger out of my voice.

He probably won't understand it anyway.

"I know ..."

He let's himself sink back into the bed again, looking away.

"... but I couldn't … not this time ..."

I feel my fists clenching.

"Promises have no exceptions Sherlock…"

I hiss under my breath, my jaw tightening.

Where does this anger come from?

I wasn't expecting an apology or anything.

God I hope I wasn't.

It was just ...

"There are always exceptions, John."

He sights heavily while facing me again.

His eyes can't quite meet mine this time.

"There is always an exception to the rule."

He looks away again.

I shrug my shoulders.

"So what?"

Grabbing his hand without giving it a second thought I force him to look at me again.

"You bloody promised! And furthermore we BOTH know that you don't really need the drugs! There is enough other stuff you can concentrate on! Enough Sherlock!"

"There is not! It's never enough!"

He sits up locking his fingers with mine fiercely as if he couldn't decide if to pull me in or push me away.

"Then why can't I be enough?"

I burst out gripping his hand so tightly my knuckles turn out white.

"Because you are the bloody problem!"

He screams, finally deciding to push me away, if only mentally, because the grip on my hand doesn't weaken a bit.

But his words sting more than every action, taking away my breath.

I hear him say some more things but I can neither focus on them nor understand a single word.

There is only one sentence in my head.

_Because you are the bloody problem._

It's gripping me and holding me and building up my well known sickish feeling all over.

It takes some time, but finally my hand slips of his and I walk out without looking back.

On my way out I find myself looking around every corner of the flat, confiscating each and everything he could use as a drug or worse.

* * *

><p>When Sahra comes home she finds me sitting on her porch, the plastic bag between my legs is filled with pills, knives and my gun.<p>

I have no idea how I look, but probably more than worse, because she doesn't even ask.

She just takes my hand, lets me in and makes me a cup of tee.

So I sit there, on her couch, wrapped up in a thick blanket, staring into blank space.

I'm so glad she doesn't ask.

I want to explain it to her, to talk about it.

But my inside feels so dull it takes me like ages to get out a single word.

"Sherlock ..."

When I finally speak my voice is hoarse and shaky.

Sahra sits down besides me, her hand resting reassuring on my back.

"What happened?"

She finally asks and I'm not sure where to begin, if there even is a clear start of all that misery.

"He drove me out … more or less ..."

I start while I clean my throat to steady my voice.

"We had an argument, because he ..."

I stop again and my hand wanders towards my stomach.  
>Why is it so hard to talk about it?<p>

Luckily she gives me time.

I breath deeply for a few seconds.

"He took drugs again!"

I finally burst out and she looks at me confused.

"Drugs? But isn't that, I don't know, like a never ever for him? I mean with them clouding his mind and all that ..."

"That's exactly it ..."

I feel a desperate smile stretch over my lips.

"**You know, when there are no cases his mind starts scratching itself raw … sometimes my friendship is enough ...**"

It's not only my smile that cracks, it's also my voice.

"**... sometimes it isn't ...**"

"A-At first ..."

I take another deep breath.

"I mean when I moved in, I was well aware of it, he did it quite openly, and though I didn't really approve of it I also didn't do anything about it … I mean, I checked on him secretly and I knew he had it under control, he was certainly not addicted or anything, it was kinda like someone was taking something against headache!"

Sahras hand touches mine softly.

It's only than that I notice how firm I have them pressed to my stomach.

"So what was different now?"

"He broke his promise, he promised me he would stop taking drugs, he swore!"

"But you just said you didn't mind ..."

"Well yes, at the beginning … I don't know, the longer I lived with him, worked with him … I-I just don't know what changed, but I couldn't watch him any more! This feeling to protect him, to shield him … It was just … so strong ..."

I shake my head helplessly.

"So I made him promise. I never thought it would actually work, considering the fact that he hardly ever does what I say or want. Yet he swore never to take drugs again, never! But he bloody did! When I came home I found him completely drugged out on the bathroom floor and when he woke up the only wise thing he had to tell my was that it was my bloody fault!"

My voice is on the verge of screaming now.

Or so I think seeing her alarmed face.

"I ..."

I try to start something that finally makes some sense, some sense about why I'm so angry.

But I fail, taking my hands away from hers to bury my face into them.

"Gosh I wish I wouldn't care that much!"

After that It's silent for quite a time.

The only noise is my still unsteady breath against my palms.

And after what seems like forever her soft sight.

"John ..."

Her hands brush lightly through my hair, like you do with a sad child.

"Could it be … that you care a bit more for him than it's usual?"

"Of course I do, I-"

I blur out while yanking my head upwards.

But I stop abruptly as I get what she really means, just to look at her completely startled.

Because until now I never even thought about it.

"Go on."

She keeps patting my head.

"I want to keep him save, I-I mean even now I'm nearly dying of worries, all the things he could do when he's alone, bloody hell! I just want him to care about what he's constantly doing to me, I want him to care …"

Once I again my face finds it's way into my palms.

"... about me ..."

"Oh John, my dear John ..."

She hurls her arms around me.

After all she doesn't seem to be surprised at all.

Well, I'm surprised for the two of us.

To think of Sherlock in such a strong way is just-

"JOHN!"

A loud voice ends my thoughts abruptly, followed from a inpatient knocking.

His voice.  
>And his knuckles against the wooden door.<p>

"JOHN! Open the door, bloody hell!"

After a last knowing look Sahra sprints in the hallway to save her door.

Sherlock just pushes her out of the way when she let's him in and storms directly into the living room, where I still sit on the couch like a picture of misery.

"It's not working!"

He spits out while pacing around me like a angry shark.

"You gone, it's not working either!"

He shots me a look.

I don't dare say a word.

I can just stare at him disbelieving.

"I thought it would stop, I bloody hoped it would stop, but it's not, it's even worse!"

He pulls his hands up in the air.

"What …"

I try standing up but he cuts through my way, forcing me to sit down again.

"Sherlock, what's worse?"

"You!"

He turns on his heels abruptly to face me.

"Me? But I ..."

I feel the urge to defend myself getting angry again.

"Yes John, YOU!"

He's getting impatient.

"It's you! Everywhere in my head it's just you!"

He looks at me so distressed I think he might be breaking down every second. Well at least he would If he wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

"I-I don't understand ..."

I stammer, trying the thing with standing up again, but this time he actually pushes me back on the couch.

"Me neither!"

He tears at his hair.

"Whatever I do, you are always around, even when your not physically there, my mind is constantly clouded with you, I just don't get it! I thought the drugs would help, but it got worse, worse, worse!"

He nearly jumps on me, placing himself on top of my lap, grabbing my collar.

"S-Sherlock ..."

My breath gets caught in my throat.

"And you gone ..."

His grip on my collar tightens.

"The feeling when you were there was so bad, but when you went out the door ..."

His loud furious voice is suddenly reduced to just a whisper.

His forehead sinks down on mine.

"... it was the worst ..."

He slowly confesses, his hands losing their grip to slide to my chest.

I'm totally confused.

But at the same time it's strangely clear.

So I gently place my hands on his cheeks.

A forgiving smile spreads across my lips while I pull him closer.

"Well, seems like our problems are solved If I don't leave again."


End file.
